I've Only Yelled at Him Twice
by Verity58
Summary: Enzan Ijuin didn't have a typical childhood. His father demanded things from him that no other child his age could have given, and as a result, a wall of ice has been built up inside of him, blocking all pain, emotion, and weakness from sight. Sometimes, though, Enzan gets hurt, and sometimes, it shows. He's more than his father's machine. Three-shot.
1. Fossil

A/N: Hi! Um… and before any of you say anything… I _know_ , I know. I've already got a story in the works, and I need to finish it, and in the meantime, the people in the Detective Conan fandom are all waiting on me to update _their_ story, and… well… Sorry! I'm still working on those, I promise! But still, this little three-shot idea has been bouncing around in my head for _ages_ now, and I'm just dying to get it out there.

So. Here we go. This takes place in the same universe as "The Frankenstein Project," but makes sense on its own and has a different, independent storyline. It will have three chapters in total, and I'm going to post each of them over the next week or so. (Promise)! This first bit is just a little bit of delicious angst to whet the appetite. (Mwa-ha-ha)!

Also: one last thing. If anyone has corrections about my limited ( _very_ limited) understanding of the Japanese language or culture used in this fic, then please, feel free to correct me! Seriously! I want to be as accurate as possible, but Google only goes so far. :P

Anyway, thank you for reading! Enjoy!

.*.*.*.

There is a word in Japanese—oyaji—that means "old man."

"Oyaji" is what I call my father.

For a lot of kids, this would be normal. It's just an informal way of saying "Dad," and to most of the world, it would be a friendly, casual way of addressing the man who raised them.

For me, this isn't the case.

Oyaji hates it when I call him that to his face—it isn't fitting, he says, for the vice president of an international tech company to use such sloppy language. Sometimes, I do it anyway, just to see the way his eyebrow twitches upward and the way his teeth grind in an effort not to scold me in public. I am his vice president, after all. It would be bad publicity for him to correct my behavior like a normal father would. Despite his satisfying reactions, though, whenever we're with others, I usually just refer to him as "President" or "Sir." Making him mad on purpose really isn't worth it in the long run, and besides, it's against my nature to rebel so openly.

I don't call him Oyaji, after all, just to get a reaction. I do it for another reason, a deeper one.

I've only yelled at my father two times in my life. The first time was so long ago that now, I can hardly remember it. It was less than a year after Mother had died, and thanks to Oyaji, my entire world was shifting under my feet. My "training," as he called it, had begun within a week of her death, and by then, it had already risen to a harsh climax. I couldn't speak, smile, think, blink, or breathe without his disapproval; everything I did was carefully weighed, graded, and rejected, and he would make me do it over again until I had done it "almost right."

I was only five years old. I hadn't learned how to cope, just yet.

I can't remember what had set me off on that particular day. I think someone had mentioned Mother that morning in a casual way, which made me more sensitive the rest of the afternoon. I do remember, though, that when Oyaji ordered me to move on to the next task for my training, I looked at the ground and refused. He froze, stepped close to me, and demanded that I obey. With emotions flying through me, I rose my head and screamed at him that he was mean, that I couldn't do it, that I was tired and scared and I wanted to stop.

The argument was short-lived, to say the least. Oyaji killed my sloppy resistance with a swift, decisive word and an ice-cold glare. I was hurting, hurting horribly, but I didn't know how to express it. He punished me, I took it in silence, and we moved on with our schedule as if nothing had happened at all. The next time I spoke of him, though, I called him "Oyaji," and have done it ever since.

Oyaji. Old Man.

Oyaji. Not Father.

When I call him "Old Man," I don't mean "Old Man" as in "Dad." I mean "Old Man" as in "ancient." He's pushed himself so far past feeling that he's pushed away his life. Really, he's denied himself of anything that defines what it means to "live." He's deprived himself—and me—of every year that occurred after Mother's death, and he's found a way, somehow, to drag out each and every one of those years into meaningless millennia of wasted time.

He's "old" as in wasted. He's "old" as in dead. He's "old" as in fossilized, unfeeling stone.

My father is not my father anymore.


	2. Flames

A/N: Alright. So here's where the story moves away from the generic "RockMan . exe" world and shifts to fit in with the anime storyline (athough I think you'll still enjoy it if you haven't watched the anime)! The following chapters take place between episodes 27 and 28 of Axess…...Or in other words, right after Enzan uses a Dark Chip on Blues in order to save the lives of Netto, RockMan, Anetta, and himself.

Enzan, brace yourself. Angst is headed your way.

.*.*.*.

I've only yelled at my father two times in my life. The first was many years ago.

The second is happening right now.

The morning started out ordinarily enough. I woke up. I had a light breakfast. I prepared for the day, putting on a suit because I knew that there was an important meeting today, and Oyaji had asked me to go to it in his place. He could have gone himself, of course, but I suppose that when you're head of a company like IPC, you attend so many meetings that it's very handy to have a vice president to attend some of them for you while you catch up on paperwork.

White shirt. Black suit. Black socks to match the slacks, and black shoes polished so well that I could see my own reflection in them. Then, I walked across my bedroom (plain white walls, dark grey carpeting) to face the mirror as I straightened my tie.

The bright, crimson-colored tie.

The voices echoed in my head without a warning, leaving me without a chance to distract myself or fight back before they came.

" _Dark chip, slot i—…"_

" _Forgive me, Blues!"_

" _What? Enzan…_ _Enzan_ _!"_

" _NOOOOOOO!"_

I tried not to. I really did. But despite my efforts not to think what had happened yesterday, my eyes strayed over to the bedside stand to my left—the small table where a bright, crimson charging station had been placed. The charging station which held a small, crimson PET.

A small, crimson, utterly _**empty**_ PET.

" _He's not logging out?"_

" _No!"_

" _Enzan-sama… I was proud to be your netnavi."_

When I came to myself again, I was kneeling on the floor with one hand pressed against the wall for support. I waited for a moment, to see if I would cry. I hadn't cried yesterday. Surely, now it was coming. I waited for the wave of emotion—of sorrow, of fear, of anger so fierce that it would make even the reckless Netto Hikari seem calm. The feelings didn't come. There was just this wall of emptiness, as blank and as cold as the plain, white walls of our home.

…And, of course, those echoing voices that just wouldn't leave me alone.

 _The dim lights._

 _The din of battle._

 _The erratic, rocking motion of the ship as we struggled to think, to fight, to coordinate our feeble attacks…_

" _Forgive me, Blues! DARK CHIP, SLOT IN!"_

Off came the suitcoat. Off came the tie. On went the long-sleeved shirt, the camo pants and the sleeveless, collared jacket that I always wear—the bright, crimson jacket that now somehow reminds me of _him_. I walked calmly out to my father's study, where he almost always is this time each morning.

He cocked an eyebrow at my informal attire. He didn't speak, he just raised that eyebrow and stared at me, waiting for me to speak.

"I'm taking the day off."

Oyaji's brows furrowed. He looked at me for a long moment, surprised. Then he said, "You have a meeting in forty-five minutes."

"I'm not attending the meeting."

"Why? Has it been cancelled?"

"It has not. However, I will not be attending it, because I am taking today off."

Oyaji sighed, straightened the papers that he'd been reading at his desk, and stood to face me more fully. "Enzan, that is quite enough. Go and change into your suit—quickly, or you'll be late."

For a full thirty seconds, I didn't respond. Then, I said a word that I haven't said to Oyaji for a long, long time. " _No._ "

"Enzan," Oyaji said in a warning tone. His eyes narrowed and took on a cold glint that he usually reserves for people other than me—time wasters, competitors, fools who make mistakes and cause obstacles to appear in the way of his grand schemes. After I was officially made his vice president several years ago, I thought I'd graduated from receiving those "looks" of his. The fact that I've just received one is a very dangerous sign.

Right now, though, standing in his study with those horrible _voices_ still wreaking havoc in my head, I just don't care. I can feel the yell building up inside of me, ripping at my insides and clawing its way up out of my throat, like a beast that's been held back in a cage for far too long. I speak, and my words come out in a roar.

" _DON'T YOU DARE! Don't you dare, don't you DARE make me go! I WON'T! I refuse to bow to your selfish, sociopathic whims_ _just because it suits you today. Do you hear me? NOT TODAY!"_

Oyaji is stunned. His eyes widen, the color drains from his already-pale face, and he pulls himself up to his full, formidable stature. "You _dare_ …"

"I dare?" I repeat, fisting my hands so hard that my arms start to tremble. " _You're_ asking _me_ how I could _dare_ to defy you? WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

Time freezes as the next words crowd into my mouth, ready to explode into the air. I ought to stop. I need to stop. But finally, finally, _finally,_ I can feel a bit of honest _fire_ working its way past the numb, icy wall that Oyaji has built inside me for the last seven years of my life. And even though it hurts, even though it's burning me and searing me and torturing me inside, there's some part of me that _likes_ the flame. There's some part of me that _misses_ being able to feel that fire. Because even in the last, torturous 48 hours, I haven't cried. Even knowing what we did—what _I_ did—I haven't shed a single tear or screamed his name or done anything aside from going about my normal routine with this horrible field of _numbness_ obscuring my vision.

Doesn't Blues—my friend—deserve a few tears from me?

Hasn't he, as my almost-brother, _earned_ them?

"All my life, you've stomped on me," I tell Oyaji, with hot blood rushing to my face to tinge my cheeks with scarlet. "Be honest, ' _Father!'_ AM I REALLY EVEN A _SON_ TO YOU? DO YOU EVEN _CARE_? Yesterday, I endured the most horrific thing I've ever had to face, and just like usual, you turned your back, waited a bit, and then essentially told me to _get my act together_ so that you could go on with your oh-so-important company plans! It's always your old philosophies—push it down, keep your head, keep everything inside like a _robot_ and don't let anyone else see that you might actually be _hurt_. We wouldn't want to do anything that could possibly be _bad for publicity_ , after all, would we? Well, guess what, _Father_? Maybe this time, I can't do that! _I AM MORE THAN YOUR COMPANY ROBOT!"_

At this, a wave of horrible, horrible loneliness crashes over me, and I screw my eyes shut as I scream my next words.

"CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME? I ONLY HAVE THREE FRIENDS IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD! THREE FRIENDS, _FATHER,_ AND ONE OF THEM IS _**DEAD**_!"

For a split second after I'm done, my father continues to gape at me, his eyes hard and wide as he stares, stunned. For tiny fragment of that time, barely an instant, I see something flash through his eyes that looks… _different_ for him. Fear? Pain? Regret? …Then, the moment is gone, and two hammer-like fists crash down on his desk, the sound reverberating through the room. I can see clearly that I've succeeded in doing what very few others have done—I've broken that icy wall of his enough to actually make him utterly, intensely _furious._

"GET OUT!" He yells. "Get out of my office! Get out of my sight, you ingrate, and don't come back until you come to your senses again! GET OUT!"

For half a second, while Oyaji is still speaking, I have an insane urge to stay, to fight, to fling his papers to the floor and grab him by his collar and shake him and _demand_ that he _answer_ me and explain what's going on in that emotionless head of his, but then, the feeling dissipates and some degree of logic comes back alongside the flames. I know, after all, that it won't do any good to stay—I honestly doubt that Oyaji himself knows what's going on in his head. That's why he's pushed me away, after all. That's why he's pushed _himself_ away, going deeper and deeper into his work so that he doesn't have to look too closely at the part of himself that he doesn't understand. So instead, I spin on my heel and run out of the study, through the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, with every pounding footstep bringing me away, away, away from that wretched study.

I don't know how long I run. When my trembling legs finally give out, I collapse on a nearby patch of grass, face first, with the world swimming around my head. I lay there, just breathing, for several minutes before I finally roll over and gaze up at the blue, cloudless, all-too cheerful sky. I don't know where I am—just that there are no people around, which is just as well. I don't want to explain anything to anyone right now.

At this point, I'm not sure that I could, even if I tried.


	3. Friends

A/N: Alright! Here's the last part to tie everything up in a bow! Man... writing this made me realize just how much I love talking in Enzan's voice and showing things through his eyes. He's definitely a fun character to tortur... um... to... um... to write about. Yup. Just to write about. Not to torture. Nope.

Thanks to all of those who've read this fic! To any of you who've been waiting on the Frankenstein Project, by the way, I've got good news! I've just about got the next chapter polished, and the two chapters after that are just about ready to go! I'm sorry for the long wait, but thanks to anyone who's stuck around to find out how it ends! (Hint: Doctor Hikari hasn't seen the worst of things, yet!)

* * *

I don't know if I actually pass out I lay there on the grass. I'm in good physical condition, so normally a little exertion wouldn't be anything to bat an eye at, but if I'm far away enough from home that I can't recognize my surroundings then I must have run a considerable distance before giving out. Once my head has stopped spinning, I roll onto my back, spend a few minutes looking up at the sky, and then finally push myself to my feet. I look around. I'm not _concerned_ , exactly, that I don't know where I am, but still… I've spent my entire life relying on knowledge, and it would be nice to know.

I wander down the sidewalk a ways, looking at the tidy rows of houses on each side of the street. They aren't very big, and there's nothing extremely remarkable about them, but it's a quiet, tidy neighborhood that seems well-cared for in general. After walking a ways, I see a road sign, and I blink in surprise as I recognize the name. Apparently, I'm in Densan City somewhere. Could I really have run that far?

Logging the information in the back of my mind, I turn and continue walking aimlessly down the roads. I take a couple of random turns, lost in a partial daze. If I wanted to turn around and get back to home, I could probably find my way eventually, but… I don't want to go back just yet. Idle thoughts drift through my mind as I wander, but then, I turn another corner and find myself looking at the stone, arched entryway to a traditional graveyard.

My lips part slightly in surprise, and for the umpteenth time that day, my heart gives an unpleasant twist. How fittingly ironic that my feet would somehow carry me here.

I know this place. I've always travelled here by a different way, and I don't know the surrounding area well, but this particular graveyard has burned itself into my memory.

It's the home to my mother's grave.

I'm in a total daze as I walk through the paved pathways, silently approaching the large, grey family memorial stone. I stop a little bit short of actually reaching it—it's traditional to give an offering of flowers and incense and gifts for the deceased, and I am empty handed. Still, I stand within easy sight of it—close enough that I can make out Mother's name from amongst the other names of my ancestors whose ashes are housed there. I stand there for a long while, just… thinking. After a while, my hand wanders over to my belt, and to the holster that holds my PET. I don't really remember strapping it on, and yet… there it is.

 _It's weird_ , I think _, that I used the word 'dead' when I told Oyaji about only having three friends._ I'd been referring to Blues, of course. Until a year ago, Blues was my _only_ friend. He was the one, reassuring constant in my life through all of Oyaji's 'training,' the steady beat that helped me keep on going. Now, though… He's gone. Just… _gone_.

People don't use words like 'die' and 'dead' when referring to NetNavis. They use 'delete,' or 'deleted,' a leftover word from when people thought of Navis as simple, nonliving data. It's been said for so long that if you were to use "dead" to describe a netnavi, people would look at you funny, and maybe even correct your wording. But still, that was what leapt to my lips when I was shouting. "Dead." Somehow, that feels more right.

Yuuichiro Hikari and his ever-optomistic son would disagree, of course. In the strictest sense of the term, Blues wasn't actually "deleted." His frame was still there. His data was still in the Cyberworld. Theoretically, that data can be retrieved. Yesterday, Doctor Hikari kept sputtering out reassurances, things about cures and research and Blues coming back. A cold, strong hand seems to clench around my heart as I stare at my mother's grave.

 _Dead people don't come back._

I startle a bit as, for the first time since coming here, I glimpse motion out of the corner of my eye. And when I look, I see a panting Haruka Hikari coming through the gate to the cemetery. Her eyes, filled with mild relief, are fixed on… Wait. Is that… _Netto?_

It is. I blink in surprise, and take a few steps around a row of gravestones blocking my view. I can just make out his usual mop of wild, brunette hair and the bright, orange jacket he always wears. He's close enough for me to see him clearly, but far enough away that I didn't notice him till now. It's no wonder I didn't see him—the other boy is sitting perfectly still, which is something I once thought him incapable of doing.

I'm just close enough to Netto's mother that I can hear her as she pulls out her PET and says "It's okay, Yuu, I was right. He's here. We'll be back in a couple minutes, depending on… on how things go, okay?" A quiet _beep_ sounds from the PET, the sound of a communication window closing. She hurries over to the other side of the graveyard, pausing at the head of the row where Netto is sitting.

For some reason, I find myself wandering closer. Whatever they're saying is none of my business, and I'd wanted to be alone just a minute ago, but… there a strange, painful, thirsty sensation building in my chest. Part of me wants to never see Netto again, after what happened yesterday. But still, some part of me, a larger part, wants to run, to greet him, to…

To do what? I shake my head, and slow to a stop before I reach them. I have no idea what I'd say. Neither of them notice me, but I'm just close enough that I can make out their voices when they start to speak.

"Netto, what were you thinking?" the woman says in between long, shaky breaths. "I've been looking for you everywhere! We thought that you'd just gone over to Meiru-chan's but…"

"Sorry, Mama," Netto mutters. "I didn't think I'd be out this long."

Haruka stands there for a moment, simply watching her son. Then, gently, she closes the gap between them, kneels down next to him, and places one hand on his shoulder. "If… if you need to be alone, I can go and sit on the bench near the entrance until you're ready," she says.

Netto doesn't answer, at first. His warm, cinnamon-brown eyes stay fixed on the grave in front of him. Then, without looking away, he says, "He probably wants to give up, at this point."

A hint of confusion flickers through his mother's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Enzan," Netto says, finally turning to meet his mother's gaze. "He's probably starting to give up by now. On the idea that Blues can come back, I mean. It just… seems like something he'll be tempted to do." He turns back to the gravestone, his expression calm but very intent.

Haruka remains silent for a moment, studying her son. "I'm sure that he'll be okay," she murmurs in the way that mothers do. "I'm sure that _both_ of them will be alright. It's like your father said—we're going to find a way."

"Of course," Netto says, a hint of his usual smile beginning to spread across his face. "I know we will. And I'm going to make _sure_ that Enzan stays okay. I know that he'll want to give up, but… I'm not going to let him."

His mother smiles and shakes her head, and then pulls him close in an embrace. "Oh, Netto… I don't think you even realize how much you've grown."

"Aw, c'mon," Netto's voice says, somewhat muffled from the hug. "Don't get sappy, mom!"

They separate, and his mother lets out a laugh. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah," Netto says, with one last look at the grave. "I want to be there when RockMan wakes up after his repairs. He got shook up a lot, yesterday, too."

His mother nods, and together, the get to their feet, and begin the short journey back home.

I watch their retreating forms until they fade into the distance, unable to be seen. Then, after a moment of indecision, I walk forward to study the grave that Netto was looking at.

There's nothing, really, to distinguish it from the dozens of other family shrines that fill the area. It's smaller and more simply designed than my mother's resting place. Crouching down, I read through the many names inscribed on the tallest, center stone of the family monument. There are several generations there—I see what looks like Netto's great-grandparents, his grandparents, someone who might be a great uncle or something similar… and…

And…

And there at the bottom is a more recent inscription. _Saito Hikari._

I sink to one knee. For the first time in years, I feel incredibly clueless and stupid. I _knew_ that Yuuichiro Hikari had lost a son at one point. I remember seeing the news reports. Still, somehow, I hadn't thought to connect the dots until now.

I'm looking at the grave of Netto's twin brother.

' _He probably wants to give up, right about now.'_

I screw my eyes shut, breathing heavily through my teeth.

After a time, I straighten, and walk away from the cemetery. I enter the commands into my PET to send a message manually to my driver, telling him to come to a location in Densan city that's a few streets away from where I am so that he can pick me up. Then, I start walking so that I can be there when he arrives.

I still don't know what I'm going to do when I go home—what will I say when I face Oyaji again? I still don't know what tomorrow will bring, or what I'm supposed to do with myself now that everything has changed. Do I continue fighting against the Darkloids? How _can_ I, with Blues gone? But then, in spite of my uncertainty, a small smile flickers across my lips for the first time in forty-eight hours.

' _I'm going to make_ _sure_ _that Enzan stays okay. I know that he'll want to give up, but… I'm not going to let him.'_

If Netto is to be trusted—and by now, I've learned to trust him with my life—I know that giving up hope, at least, is not going to be an option.


End file.
